


Tactics with Transfigurations and Tomatoes

by olivia_beige



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivia_beige/pseuds/olivia_beige
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Potter has his priorities sorted: what he wants and what fascinates him. Also, tomatoes are somehow involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tactics with Transfigurations and Tomatoes

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote - and finished! - something! Probably the end of the world. Or, possibly, a bit of a breather between readings and equations. Anyway, I should've been poking at _something_ with Hogwarts 1997, but this happened, one must sail with the flow, and I am a dubious creature who must have another angle of this  pairing.

It was only at that moment that James marveled – genuinely, generously marveled – at the benefits of tomato. In fact, he mused as he stared at a liquid green that reminded him of sun-pierced lake water and boot heels on cobblestones, he was prepared to theorize that tomatoes are the clever incarnations of fate.

Or something like that.

~

He had never really known her, even though his parents told him that she was an aunt. But James couldn’t be parted from his blocks and his toy wand. He folded his arms. He made a face at the wall. Eventually, his mother saved the wall from injustice and promised, “We’ll have a cup of chocolate afterwards, darling,” and then his father nodded that this Aunt Potter had a tome about “these chocolate intricacies.”

They were welcomed into a sitting room with lots of purple and paintings. He heard his father greet, “My dear cousin!” James peered at this Aunt over his _lad’s cup of tea_ , for a long time, before he allowed that they must be related.

James also had the suspicion that everything about her seemed to be surveying him. Her silk-thin hair glinted at the barest head-tilts, and her teeth glinted when she smiled his father’s smile. Even her plainly trimmed robes proved to be guilty of a subtle glint when she crossed her ankles or shifted her arms. Most of all, however, was the boldest glint of a carefully wrought ring around her frail finger.

So, James listened to the conversation.

He said, “I’m sorry to learn of your illness, Aunt. Have you been drinking your potions?”

“What a fine gentleman,” she called him. Not that he hadn’t heard of it before. She put down a bite of cake, the ring as bold as ever, and continued, “Are the crumpets not to your liking, James? Would you like some fruit?”

He almost managed not to glance at his mother. “Oh, no, thank you. It’s only because I had pastries last night. And before breakfast…”

The Aunt raised her eyebrows, cradled by so many folded skin, bespotted like his parents’, and remarked, “Something different, then.” To his mother and father, she waved her hand in the impression of the boneless. “What would you like to eat, James?”

“Well.” His eyes darted about the room, broomsticks without the rushing sounds, and landed on a still painting beside a purple drape that was a net of shadows and sunshine. “Those ones, please.”

“Ah, tomatoes,” she nodded. “Quillie will attend to it.”

James visited once a week. He’d be served sliced tomatoes while he sat with his parents. He talked about brooms, sometimes. He talked about his Book a lot.

“I’ve read it loads of times,” he declared as his parents beamed. “But Father says I could do spells once I got a proper wand.”

“What an intelligent child. You really are interested in this branch of magic, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” James set down his cup. A thrill was on the verge of wringing his hands, having had started the gleeful chanting in his head. “Transfiguration!” He mimed an explosion. “One thing becomes another thing! A tomato that isn’t really a tomato!”

In the following year and some months, he learned that Transfiguration was also her favourite.

“Now, as a girl, I kept in mind a basic principle of transfiguration,” the Aunt informed him. “This ring is a ring for me.” She placed the ring of shameless glints on her palm. “It could also be a key for you.” A twirling flick of her wand had James gazing at a fancy golden key. “However, you could always transfigure it back to a ring – and the reversion requires less energy – because it _is_ still a ring in essence, if not in function and appearance.”

So, James talked of transfiguration with her and met the giant book of chocolate recipes as the adults had holiday drinks while listening to holiday songs. He talked of transfiguration with her and ate a chocolate cookie with chocolate-sponge middle as he walked with the Aunt in a petal-strewn garden.

James was playing with a tomato slice, cool on his tongue, and flipping through a book one summer. Half an hour before his parents’ return from a gathering, the heavy and sticky lull was ripped by Quillie, screaming down the hall. She was clutching the Aunt’s potion bottle.

James stared at her.

Some weeks after, he got his Hogwarts letter, the Aunt’s ring, and her orchard with tomato plants.

~

“Billywig.”

James handed the pilfered bottle. “Two drops.”

“I know. Toad liver.”

“All chopped up!”

“Thank you, Peter.”

Two stirs, clockwise. Half a stir, counterclockwise. “Right. Snake fangs. Quicky.”

“Bloody hippogriffs, you’re a god, Remus – “

“The fangs, Sirius!”

James grabbed the fangs and saved their potion. Sirius continued like a blithe wind across a meadow, like he hadn’t nearly botched their brilliant plan, “I mean, where’s that proper inflection of ‘quickly’? You must sound frantic. Why do you not sound like it’s a very important matter?”

Remus let out a breath, measured as his stirs, while Peter counted out loud. James nodded in approval and shifted a cramped leg.

“Dinner’s nearly over,” James said over his crushing of lavender. “What did you tell McKinnon?”

Sirius was rummaging through a pile of socks and stray pillowcases. He once told James that sorting through things and finding the misplaced soothed him. James tried to avoid the flailing arms, got his face hit by a balled up – filthy, sweaty, gooey – handkerchief, and was not soothed.

“Nothing, really. I set him up with that Ravenclaw, Vance or Vane, or whatever the name is.”

“ – thirty – you did what?” Peter hiccupped.

“He’s positively mad about carrots, and I heard from Diggle that Vance-Vane loved cheese. They’re made for each other, no doubt about it.”

“That’s disgusting.” James paused the pestle in horror. “Who would eat carrots and cheese at the same time?”

“I’ll have you know that a cousin of mine does.” Sirius emerged from under his bed, ruffled and triumphantly holding a book. “Shame on you for your palatal discrimination, James Potter. Anyway. What’s the page, again?”

Remus coughed delicately. “Emmeline Vance is busy with her O.W.L.s”

“I asked for the page, but!” Sirius grinned. “How would you know that? You’re not an O.W.L. student.”

James flapped a hand. “He’s preparing for next year, of co – “

“Oi!” Someone banged on the door. “Why’s this locked?”

Peter squeaked, hopefully not losing count.

Remus startled, and James was almost convinced that he could see the Remus’ hair bristling, in tawny clouds and spikes, at the back of his head.

James hissed, “Keep stirring!”

“Ah, McKinnon,” Sirius called, disentangling his legs from the sheets puddling on the floor. “How are the carrots and cheese?”

“Emmeline doesn’t like cheese! And she’s busy. It was Diggle who loves cheese.”

“Ah, transference. I should’ve set you up with Diggle.” Snickers crackled around their cauldron. “Wait, what does she like, then?”

“Pumpkin seeds, you git!” Another vigorous bang on the door, and really, James now had the urge to vigorously bang McKinnon’s head on the unfortunate door.

“Let me in, or I’m calling Shacklebolt – “

Sirius pretended to quail. “Oooh, I’m terrified – “

“I’ll call McGonagall! You’re all in there, aren’t you?”

Voices came floating somewhere outside their door. James pushed another vial into Remus’ hands with all the urgency of Slughorn in a pineapple high. Sirius stopped quailing and started pacing.

“Black!”

“We can’t!” Pace, pace, pace. “We’re – er.” Pace, pace. “That is…” Sirius paused by Remus’ weirdly neat bedside table and absently grabbed a licorice. “Er – we’re – we’re having the Talk!” And then Sirius’ face lit up beneath his scrambled hair. “Yes! Peter got bothered because he saw a tentacle in the lake, you see, and Remus got strange thoughts about bothered squeaks and tentacles, and we’re coming to terms with alternative preferences – “

“Sirius!”

“Are you mad?”

“I’ll kill you!”

“So.” The licorice was waved in a grand gesture. “We’re having a talk, mates and all, and if you have some ounce of chivalry and a bit of conscience, you won’t impose on a delicate moment, McKinnon!” More licorice waving. “You should be ashamed of yourself, you should – “

“You stopped stirring!” James wailed.

Remus  jerked, picked himself up from the swamp of utter disbelief that was Sirius’ slimy rocks of _ideas_ , and spluttered. Peter began snatching duvets like an automated and frothy-mouthed linen snatcher, which was a moment too late.

There was a loud pop. Which was anticlimactic. For it was like a pop of a giant’s paint tube, because when the salty smoke had melted away, they discovered that half the room was doused with blue sludge.

“Oh, my god,” Peter whimpered. “It’s a wrong shade.”

~

“It’s the correct shade this time, yes?”

“Yes,” Remus sighed over his toast with cheese. “I completed the stirs. And we re-checked.”

James grunted, scratching his arms. Then, his neck. Bloody sludge. There was also the matter that he only had four hours of sweet sleep, look at the shadows under his eyes.

“Look at the shadows under my eyes,” Sirius piped up, alarming several bacon bits on his fork and a dozing Peter. “We need to find some secret place, not the common room after midnight.” He frowned, then scratched his jaw.

“Er – I was thinking the kitchens,” Peter offered, and lifted a goblet to his lips. “Or the kitchens’ corri – “

The goblet was knocked out of Peter’s sleepy and unthinking grip, in a swirl of pumpkin juice and the glop of criminal orange stains on linen. Peter beamed at James all his admiration.

Sirius continued his watch of the Hall with steely eyes, his tapping wand an excited rabbit. Remus’ mouth curved a little, and focused on his open _The Health Matters of Slugs, Sugar, and Sin_. James had peeked at the pages once, and the very modern half-blood author had opened a chapter along the lines of: _So you have decided to be health-conscious without the tasteless blend of fruit and beetle eyes…_

“It’s time,” Sirius hissed, seeming to waver in his seat. James followed his gaze, saw pasty and oily in the streaming morning light, and nodded that everyone’s now accounted for. Well, everyone who mattered in the prank. James knew that what Sirius had was contagious, for he started to tremble, too.

“Stress the _o_ ,” Remus reminded. Peter bit his lower lip.

Sirius grinned, “Right,” and tapped his wand on his goblet.

And then the owls flew in, dew and sunlight matting their feathers, their amiable screeches drowned out by the horrified shrieking in the hall.

“Best morning warm-up,” James beamed, raising his hands in a beatific flap.

But there was a check in Sirius’ cackle and Peter was gurgling something.

Wait. Oh.

James turned to a choking Remus. “What the hell?”

“We checked,” he breathed out, at the same moment breathing in lungfuls of calm, and choking again. “Robin shade, light consistency – “

The leaden headache of too little sleep doubled. James exhaled, scratched his neck and wrists, and tried to think through the fog and the jig in his mind.

Sirius’ voice went a tad higher. “Merlin, where did we go wrong? Must’ve been the late hour – “

“It was fine at past two this morning – “ Remus interjected.

Peter quoted, “Correct properties are tightly dependent on procedure.”

“Then, the house-elves!” James burst out, scrubbing his scalp. “It was fine when we brought it to the kitchens this morning – oh, batty bats, they’re supposed to switch noses!”

James stopped. He took in the squawking and the wailing and the flailing.

“Actually…this is funnier.”

James giggled, and he never knew giggles-turned-cackles could attract a splattering on the side of his face. He blinked and was met by snapping eyes and fiery red.

Oh. It was that Evans girl.

Who was now attached to a Ravenclaw boy with a golden halo.

Sirius didn’t take pity on him, laughing at his besplattered face.

“Yes?” James inquired through giggles. “What a dashing pair, by the way.”

“You troll,” Evans snarled. Her companion leaned away as one would from nifflers, nose twitching. “How are we supposed to go to classes now?”

She took things too seriously, this one. James waved in the direction of the frantic professors. “I’m sure they can sort this out, please remain calm.”

Evans was trying to wring out his entrails with her glare. His other friends had fallen a bit silent; maybe he should stop his mouth now.

Wait. He _was_ foreman, even if Peter was communing with the table cloth, Remus’ lips were stretching to a wider curve, and Sirius was stuffing a knuckle in his mouth.

“How are we supposed to sit?” Evans’ fingers twitched near a butter knife.

“Transfigure chairs to small benches,” he promptly volleyed.

“How are we supposed to perform wand movements?” she gestured at her and her companion’s awkward right hands.

“My god, you’re contrary, but I’m sure – “

Another sticky thing smacked his face. “HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO CHANGE MY TAMPON!”

“Miss Evans!” McGonagall strode towards them. “Throwing food at fellow students, how could you?”

A red, indignant finger pinned James to the stake. “It’s them, Professor!”

“Yes, so I’ve noticed they’re unstuck, aren’t they,” McGonagall scowled. She then turned back to the pair. “Please proceed to Professor Flitwick. Mr. Lockhart, are you quite all right?”

The Ravenclaw boy stopped twitching, warily looking at Evans. “Yes, yes, I’m fine, Professor.”

“Professor, it was supposed to be nose switching!” James cried. “Merely nose switching!”

He only received a curt “I’ll be dealing with you later,” and then McGonagall was sweeping away in tartan biscuit-high.

James despaired. There went his planned nap and second shower.

“Wasn’t so bad, mate,” Sirius thumped him. “Think about that time when she made us unspell the Sticking Stockings and we had to see Hagrid’s thighs.”

“We should’ve been napping,” he sulked.

Remus said, “We’re rather obvious, we’re unstuck.”

James brooded a bit, and grabbed his napkin and wiped the oozing distraction from his lashes. On the white fabric were blots of red and tiny orange seeds.

It took Peter polishing off the last of kippers before James stood, headache and itch forgotten because suddenly the Hall was glowing with damp morning light, yelling, “Hey, Evans!” He made a mad wave with the napkin, his carefully-wrought ring catching the glow, so that Evans spotted him from a distressed crowd.

“Evans! You threw tomatoes at me! Knew you’re a fellow in spirit!”

She sneered at him, and the twitchy-nosed Lockhart chap edged away from her with a piteous look.

~

James flung the drapes open, and beheld the frost brushed away by swaths of green and dots of other colours. Even the air seemed frothy and gently rippling. It smelled of dew and fragrance and freshness, and James clutched at the thick drapes like he would clutch a bunch of his mother’s flowers.

From his bed, Sirius observed, “Remus, this early in the morning and you’re already into porn?”

Remus said, “What!” and James guffawed over the raspy titters.

“He’s already in the chapter with cherry uses,” Sirius plowed on, voice thick with sleep and eyes thicker with replenished hyperactivity. “With words like _subconscious_ and _blood-tingling_ and – “

“It’s food!” Remus hugged _Slugs, Sugar, and Sin_ to his chest, stroking its spine. “And potions!”

“Food porn,” James said, basking by the window.

“Potio – “

“Urgh, stop,” Peter bleated, and burrowed under the covers.

James frowned. Sirius very nearly said _potions_ and _porn_ in the same sentence. _Potions_ could be synonymous to _Snape_ , best in class, and _Snape_ and _porn_ must never be breathed in a sentence.

James shuddered, “Urgh, thank you, Peter!” for Peter was an insightful fellow. He turned to Sirius’ sinister mind, but Sirius was already being lectured by Remus about matters of the subconscious and blood-tingling variety.

“ – and for example, in a limited time, you just pop in a shop and grab a – a blood-flavoured lollipop. Then, somewhere in your mind, the following things could be considered – “

“Excuse me,” James cut in, before he was quoted a whole chapter. “Did you say food is related to the subconscious?”

Peter peered out from his duvet. McKinnon continued to snore behind the safety of closed curtains, blessedly unknowing of such reflections and shenanigans.

Remus blinked. “Well, I didn’t exactly – “

“Yes,” James waved a hand. “But it’s the simplest form of the thought.”

“You could put it like that, I suppose.”

James was deep in thought. He faced the sweetened outside air again, and gazed at the newly-wreathed trees bursting with fruit and flowers and fowl. James loved that this same window scene could also take on the qualities and appearance of biting winter, gilded autumn, and heavy summer. It just wasn’t the same as his perfecting the stag transformation.

Well, almost not the same. If he could accomplish it before thirty, he’d require longer arms, he’d be patting his back with sheer amazement.

Anyway, he was thinking…

~

“Hey, Evans, nice scarf.”

James took a swig of butterbeer, windswept and still in Quidditch gear. He carelessly nicked a biscuit from a passing Sirius. Sirius smiled a shrewd smile, his knowing smile when he knew that he and James were going to be best mates even before James realized it, when his cousin offered James scones at tea when they were twelve and James _secretly_ disliked scones so that James came to associate Bellatrix with scones.

“It’s the Gryffindor scarf,” Evans said in a slow tone, as if James was simple. Or possibly a bit more touched in the skull by the Bludger.

“That’s right, and it suits your hair.”

Evans stared at him. It was a quite unsettling stare.

“Congratulations,” she said after a while, like she was the Minister or something. Bagnold was a very stiff and no-nonsense Minister.

“Thanks. I scored 25 goals.”

She nodded. “Very nice. I – fancy a spot of cream. Excuse me.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I’m also headed that way.”

Evans pursed her lips.

“I also love tomatoes, by the way.”

She flicked him those snapping eyes, and tried to maneuver a gaggle of ruddy-faced sixth years. “What do you want, Potter?”

“I thought we should be friends.” James thought it was rather obvious. “You are the first person who threw tomatoes my way. I love tomatoes, you love tomatoes.”

Evans gripped her own butterbeer bottle, amber against prickly pink, before turning on her heels. “I don’t.”

~

“May I have a turn at these scales? Hi, Evans. You maintain scales very well.”

Snape sneered at him from behind thick fumes. James ignored the git. Friends of the friend and all that tosh.

There was once a time when he would’ve ignored them both, though, for they redefined the meanings of crystallized pineapple and tartan biscuits and squeaking sugar mice and every other teacher’s sweets. Now, James considered that he still had a hold on those tartan biscuits, so he patiently waited for Evans to look up.

“You have your own scales,” Evans pointed out, not looking up.

“Sirius’ using it.”

“Wait for him, then. There’s only the standard ingredient to be weighed.”

“Ah. In that case, these mistletoe berries are fabulous. How did you harvest them?”

Evans’ face was already blotchy below her knotted hair. When her nostrils flared, James’ mind became a sea on which sailed the thought of dragons.

“They’re from the back cupboard.”

James started an engrossing tale of the Aunt’s mistletoe berry greenhouse, to an Evans engrossingly measuring salamander blood.

~

“I don’t understand. I’m a gentleman, I have fortunate looks, I know various wand movements of the likes of Dumbledore’s or McGonagall’s – everyone wants to be friends with me.”

The trees were hushed and had a secretive quality about them, golden leaves cradling golden sunlight, filtering the light in a trickle of red and orange shards on to the crunchy forest floor.

James shook a handful of leaves from his remnant antlers, and looked at Sirius and Peter.

“’Course they do,” Peter beamed, his tail looped around his wrist like a disturbing ribbon. “Except Snivellus.”

James knew of one thing about Peter, ever since the time Peter had looked pale as his hair and told them in a small voice that he didn’t like Slughorn’s photo frames and tweed jacket, and told Peter so. “Pete, you insightful fellow, you! Snivellus! Of course!”

“Evans likes the library. Try book bonding,” came from Sirius. He was on his stomach, pillowed on his robes and shirt, while James continued the gentle tugging of the fur on Sirius’ back.

“An hour more, or so. Same time next week?”

“Yes. Remus will be having a meeting by then.”

~

James found her that evening, hopefully not drooling on her books. He couldn’t blame her, though; pudding was exceptionally superb and even he felt a Knut sleepy.

He put down his bag on the carrel next to hers, settled his study things. She had an Arithmancy chart smothering a clipped pile of notes and her quill’s feather brushed her temple like a gentle dream while its tip dripped the ink of her thoughts. James shrugged and flipped open his Transfiguration text. There were plenty of conversations to be had between spell formulas and Transfiguration wand theory. She was a smart girl, the smartest girl in their year, even.

The light on the nearby sconces flickered, the spitting and shadows slanting James’ eyes from the stone walls back to Evans. She had uncurving eyebrows, almost rendering her face expressionless if not for her eyes. James liked her eyes; he vowed to observe them more closely. More flickers, and there were her decidedly upturned, freckled nose and her decided mouth.

James nodded to himself. He had a hunch, and he should confer with Remus.

~

“Go on, mate,” Sirius encouraged, giddy with success, with a smile as wispy as the clouds above the winter hush. “We can do it, and we’re not the bloody top in Transfiguration, are we, Pete?”

Peter gave a cheer and James made an abrupt nod.  He closed his eyes, flexing his fingers. Remus needed this, just like James needed Remus’ solid calm when things left tipsy and flirted with stumbling. Remus needed this, James saw in the other’s wistful smiles on full moon eves and determined cheer the following mornings.

He breathed in, out. James needed this, an accomplishment beyond home and school, something that was him.

In, out. He was brilliant, wasn’t he?

Then, rollers were molding his skin, wrinkling everything outside his mind, changing what the others could see. It was quick work of strong tremors, and James could feel the crush of frost beneath four legs and a weight on his head.

Sirius grinned, Peter clapped, and they gave the signal.

In, out.  In. A lingering out. James thought of himself again, the form most familiar with others. Once again, there were the swift shifting and settling, and he hoped them to be right.

By the ringing whoops, he knew that they were. James opened his eyes and said, “I need a longer arm,” for he was ages from thirty. It was incredibly satisfying, his best work of transfiguration yet.

~

“The giant squid! The giant squid over me! What has come over us? The world has gone mad, it has!”

“It hasn’t,” said Sirius, and handed James a Sugar Quill. James stared at it, hoping it shared his bewilderment. It didn’t. James subsided to his bed and broodingly ate the Quill.

“Are you feeling better now?” Peter wanted to know. “I think Professor Dumbledore has sweet cravings so he could cope with stress.”

“Sugar quills are unruffled, not-to-be-bewildered creatures,” was the lament.

Peter glanced at Sirius, who turned to Remus, because Remus was Wise.

Remus poured them cool pumpkin juice from his weirdly neat and efficient side table, and said, “Oh, James. You shouldn’t have done that to her friend. Tolerate the friends, remember?”

“Who calls their friends filthy names?”

“We –e – ll…”

Exactly! Nobody!”

“You called Padfoot a mangy git last week,” Peter offered.

Peter was always insightful, but James knew better. “There are names, and then there are _filthy names_.”

“James, please drink this cool pumpkin juice. Cool juice will soothe your temper,” Remus pleaded, while taking precautionary measures by blocking out the melted clouds and glittering window panes with a flick of his wand.

“I don’t understand, though. There are other girls out there, Prongs, others not associated with greasy gits. And anyway,” Sirius peeled a Chocolate Frog, and passed a tin box around. “I think Evans has grudge and judgmental and competitive issues.” At their dubious looks, he added, “I see those everyday. In the mad house where I live.”

“But I have a crush! Remus said so! Didn’t you, Moony?”

“I have. Usually, though, crushes are temporary.”

“Temporary,” James scoffed. “Not likely, no, not when it involves tomatoes.” Did that sound convincing?  “And…”

“And?” was the simultaneous prompt.

James fell silent and polished off his Quill.

“Evans likes bookish people.”

“I’ve read lots of books, Wormtail, and I talked to her about them in the library. She told me she was on tight schedule, and started doing homework, and I saw colour-coded notes and a much abused planner.”

“Maybe she likes them brainy – “

“McGonagall says I’m brilliant! Says it everyday!”

“ – or rugged and nice,” Sirius continued.  “Ooh, you should’ve discussed books after a Quidditch game – “

“I’ve talked to her during a victory party,” James cut Sirius off, before any more bizarre ideas were aired. “I was nice to her and her scarf.”

“Perhaps,” Remus spoke up, and it was a tone either _everything is simple and will be all right_ calm or _now drink some cool juice and do some breathing exercises_ calm. “Perhaps – and it’s not the world’s end – perhaps, James, you’re not her type.”

~

James watched Evans. He watched her smile, breeze-rumpled, feeding Kettleburn’s domesticated porlock with content fascination. He watched Evans coo at the creature and skip the last Hogsmeade trip before the summer holidays. Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked her out to the village when she preferred the cusp of the Forbidden Forest.

James tossed his head, and the movement caught her eye. Evans frowned, squinted, and turned one last time to the porlock in the paddock. Then, with guarded steps and secured wand, she approached, treading where the sun-warmed swath of grass met the drooping hush if the forest.

Around a leaning trunk, his antlers emerged, then his face. Evan’s head slowly angled towards him, stray sunlight firing up a portion of her hair in throbbing red. Her eyes widened.

They stared at each other for Merlin knew how long, but it was enough for James to notice that she had no robe and stockings on, and that a smile was trickling on her face, like honey.

“Hello,” she murmured. “So, there are normal things in this forest.” She glanced around, seemed to be comforted by the day, and ventured half a step. “I mean, normal for me.”

She gazed at him some more, worrying her lip with bites and purses, and it wasn’t like the challenging stare that she garbed herself with in the classrooms and corridors. With a reassuring smile, and a decided step, she then placed a fruit between them.

It was a tomato.

James marveled at it for a while, shoving away thoughts of porlocks and subconscious proclivities. With Evans in his periphery, he approached the tomato, sat down, and bent his neck to put it in his mouth.

Flavour and coolness rioted on his tongue, and Evans was beaming and hedging closer. He companionably tilted his head. In a whiff of a Conjured blanket and the crush of the undergrowth, she was sitting a few feet from him. Evans secured her place with another offering of tomato and raspberry.

“Do you have magical properties, I wonder? Or are you just a normal stag and frequently freaked out by centaurs and unicorns? If you’re a wanderer of these parts, that is.”

Evans was not insulting him, or looking at him with a bright stare if he happened to be her friend. James basked in sunlight and novelty.

“I’ve a feeling you’re not really from here.” She gave him another fruit. “Me either. Centaurs and unicorns took a long time to digest.”

James wondered if stags were _normal_ in the Muggle world, then.

“Stags are normal in the Muggle world.”

He gave an amused sound.

“I know,” she beamed. “That’s why I’m a bit surprised – and glad – that you’re not a unicorn. Well, but I am fascinated with unicorns. We also have owls, but not these kinds of owls.” Evans eyed his antlers. “Makes me wonder if you have a special thing, like post, or raking nettles, or something.”

She tilted her head and her fingers hesitated, a breath away from his antlers. James kept still, watching her eyes, watching her unsure for the first time since he really started watching her. Her edges had always been visible, forward with spouting facts to teachers, forward with spouting end of friendships with MacDonald and Snape, forward with writing a complaint about equal rights to the Minister. James watched her eyes, and they’ve always brought to mind sun-pierced lake water and boot heels on cobblestones.

“Gosh,” she breathed. “How intricate. Don’t let the hunters get these.”

Evans fell silent, studying him. James studied her in return, the lighted leaves firing glints on her hair and eyes and skin. Perhaps Sirius had a point.

And then, she was standing, saying, “I hope to see you next time,” and smiling at him over her shoulders. James watched her exit the woods’ tame sunlight into the blazing brightness beyond.

James lowered his gaze, meeting a half-eaten tomato, the juice and seeds likewise glinting.

He transformed back, a drawl against his skin that was the summer air, turning Remus’ words over and over: _Perhaps you’re not her type._

But he was brilliant, wasn’t he?

James ran a hand through his hair, the carefully-wrought ring on his finger pecking the light and glinting. He gazed at it for a long moment.

_It_ is _still a ring in essence, if not in function and appearance._

And then, he looked up, following the breezy and mellow trail which Evans took.

 

_**fin** _

 


End file.
